


Tá a Mháistir

by WearMyFace



Category: The Lego Movie
Genre: Angst, Racism, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 16:09:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1654559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WearMyFace/pseuds/WearMyFace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bad Cop has screwed up and Lord Business is displeased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tá a Mháistir

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for child violence, angst and general feels. You have been warned.

The last time he'd cried like this, he'd been a wee lad, around five or six. Goodwill had been walking home from school, proudly carrying a poorly-executed but still well-meaning fingerpainting of something or other for their parents, he couldn't be arsed to remember what it was now, and even now, 20-some odd years later, he still remembered that glowing knot of pride in their chest. The smile on Goodwill's face and the spring in his step. The way the sun felt warm and the air smelling like the clean laundry people hung up on nice days. 

Behind them, footsteps, lots of them and gaining. Turning around and seeing bigger boys, the ones who took over the football field with their longer legs and jeering words (“Go back on the swingset snot-nosed little babies!”) and who kissed girls behind the big slide. The lump of fear when they saw the bricks and boards held in hands. The next few minutes were a blur of panic and fear and screaming and blood spattering the pale grey pavement and the words (“Stupid nigger kids! Go back to your dirt country! We don't want you here!“) burning themselves into their head. He'd switched in and taken it for Goodwill, and within seconds he was crying, big fat tears that they noticed and mocked. He doesn't remember what happened next, just that he was curled in a ball on the concrete sobbing and then it was quiet, there were no more confusing words (just what was a nigger, anyway?) or kicks. He sat with his knees up to his chest and suddenly Pa was there and he was being picked up and brought back home where there were kisses and a bath and band aids applied and a nice hot dinner with sweets after. 

Now he lays in the same position, curled in a ball on the floor, tears streaming down his face, but the thing keeping him down isn't just his own fear. It's a boot. Impossibly big and heavy; he's sure any longer and he's going to hear his own ribs snap. The owner of the boot notices and eases up a little. Just a little. 

“Bad Cop, we talked about this.” That voice, light and slightly chastising, like he's gently redirecting a child. 

“A-Ah'm sorry, Sir!” He's gasping for breath, partly because his chest is being crushed and partly out of fear. 

“All I'm asking for is total perfection. Is that so much to ask for?” 

It is and Sinbad knows it and Goodwill knows it but they both know better than to say it. Especially here, in this position. So he shakes his head like a good soldier. 

“No Sir. It's not.”

The man above him smiles. “And?”

Of course there's an and, there's always an and. Go ahead, Sinbad. Dig your hole deeper. “An'...” He's actually not sure what the and is here. Does he say he'll do better next time? Put himself down? Put Lord Business up? Swear to kill more Builders? 

“And? I'm waiting, Bad Cop, and you know I hate waiting.”

Sinbad swallows. Oh he knows. He knows probably better than anyone else in this god-forsaken Tower the consequences for being even a few seconds late and how Lord Business has a schedule and deviating (even slightly) results in humiliating punishment. It only took him one time of being forced to spend the entire day and night on his face and knees bowed before Lord Business's desk to get it. The robots had had to literally pull him up and carry him (drag him, actually) all the way back to his room. He goes for the option that Lord Business likes to hear most often. 

“An' Ah'm stupid an' worthless an' a sack o' shite-” the boot presses a faction harder. 

“Language, Bad Cop.” Business chides gently. Sinbad tries to swallow around the lump in his throat and nods. 

“Yes Sir.” 

The boot lifts off and he's dismissed with a wave of a hand. He takes his opportunity and walks slow, measured paces to the door, just like he'd been instructed. Once outside, he becomes a tornado of motion. He darts around corners, down stairs and past robots and he knows he could've just taken the elevator down but he feels if he doesn't /move/ he's going to explode. Finally, after minutes of his chest screaming at him and his legs feeling like jelly, he makes it to his room and wrenches open the door and shuts and locks it. 

He strips down to his bare skin and pads to the shower. Standing with his palms splayed against the wall with boiling water pouring down his back, he takes deep careful breaths. He's safe now, as safe as he can be here, and so he lets Goodwill take over. His world fades away to a dark comforting place and for the first time all day, he relaxes.


End file.
